


relationship status

by fated_addiction



Category: K-pop, Real Person Fiction, Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: “I don’t know if I feel pretty today.”Or, when Wendy thinks about buying a lock for her door.
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Son Seungwan | Wendy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 103





	relationship status

-

“I don’t know if I feel pretty today.”

Each time Irene goes into self-conscious mode, Wendy wonders if she actually _hears_ herself. There’s nothing to say. Irene is pretty mum on her own insecurities. They come out when she’s mad, irritated, or exhausted, all three easily hidden behind her just being firm with all of them. Yeri, get up. Joy, _shut up_. Seulgi, you need to sleep.

“That’s stupid.” Wendy isn’t sure if she sighs or rolls her eyes or does both. She lays back down in her bed, dragging the covers to her knees by kicking them close. She smells the ginger tea. And lemon. And the honey they bought together that time they went to Switzerland, which seems like too long ago.

The bed sinks with Irene’s weight and her fingers are in Wendy’s hair. “Usually,” she says. “I agree.”

Usually, Irene just starts by inviting herself.

They haven’t felt close in a long time.

“It’s bound to happen,” her therapist tells her. Company-regulated, you know. People who are too close also go through periods where they are not close, don’t miss each other, and honestly, they can’t stand to be in the same place as each other. This is where Wendy swears that time is a construct and feelings are all bullshit, but then again she feels like she’s been on a long, cranky vacation.

But she thinks she actually misses Irene. Down to the point where she actually _refuses_ to call Joohyun _Joohyun_ in her head because it feels way too intimate, way too fast, even though they have been there before, time after time after time again.

Maybe she misses her. “Maybe I miss her,” she says, out loud. To her therapist. The office is too cushy to remember, leather chairs and open windows that look like a drama construct, one that she’s probably sang an OST for in the past. 

“But maybe I don’t,” she says too. Watches the expression on her therapist’s face change, from confusion to totally blank. She thinks of Irene and all her glossy friendships, girls who just look exactly like her, wide-eyed and ethereal, a secret turning against her mouth.

Her therapist never really has anything useful to say.

Then it comes back, whatever _it_ is:

“You’re in my bed,” she says curtly, maybe even sourly, but she is not entirely sure since it’s like nine o’clock and Irene has her own bed.

They all have schedules. That isn’t the problem. It will never be the problem, some unnies even say to them. Wendy knows that Joy is outside taking photos for her Instagram because “god, unnie, the light is just right!” because they all have to have some kind of vice. She can’t think of the others either; Irene is here, in her bed, curled to the side and wearing a pair panties, not shorts, since their apartment and the air and it’s summer and they have never had any luck in the summer with their places.

Wendy pokes the skin behind Irene’s knee. She grunts.

“You’re in _my_ bed,” she says again.

“It’s cooler in your room.”

“Sleep in the living room. There’s where the vent is.”

Irene opens one eye. Wisps of hair frame her face. “You’re in a mood,” she says sleepily. Grabs her by the wrist. Wendy feels every finger wrap around it too, counts right in her head, one, two, _three_. “Did something happen?” Irene asks.

“I’m just cranky.”

“I know.”

Neither response is an apology.

But Wendy gives in. Or tells herself that she gives in. She pushes Irene’s hip over. Her palm connects to patch of skin and the knots in her belly are sent spiraling. She’s annoyed. Maybe. Maybe it’s more than that. She still drops to the pillow next to her. They share the pillow; Irene doesn’t move over.

The back of her throat feels a little rusty. “How long have you been here?”

“Don’t remember. Fell asleep in the car. We had dinner with Jennie and Jisoo and I had wine. It made me feel a little funny. I haven’t had wine in awhile.”

“Go figure.”

Wendy shifts in the bed and peels off her leggings. Kicks them off the bed. Vaguely, she tells herself: _I’ll get them later_. It’s a moot point. Her knee still presses into Irene’s thigh and maybe it’s to create some kind of distance. Maybe it’s not. Her skin is still really warm.

“What about you?” Irene asks. She doesn’t go any further.

Wendy doesn’t answer either. Stares right at her under her lashes and thinks about the last time they were this close together. Those knots in her belly are almost mocking her, crawling out from the pit of her stomach and diving into her throat.

I was singing, she doesn’t say. Instead, her fingers rise and flutter against Irene’s mouth. She stares at it openly.

This is usually how she wants to kiss her.

“It makes sense,” her therapist says. “You’re always together.”

Wendy stares blankly off to the side. The response is automatic.

“Sure,” she says.

It’s really about kissing and _need_ and never about feelings.

Somehow, they go from Wendy’s knee to Irene’s thigh to Irene between both of Wendy’s legs on her knees. The low light in the bedroom is almost romantic, could be romantic, but they haven’t ventured to that corner in awhile either. This is what happens when life becomes life and they are just really busy.

“Should we do it?” Irene asks. But it’s not for permission. A door down the hallway opens and shut. There are voices and Wendy waits. “It’s hot enough in this damn apartment,” Irene says too and now, she knows she’s just going off the adrenaline from her schedules and comebacks.

“My door is open.”

“So?”

Wendy snorts and reaches forward. Her fingers splay over Irene’s stomach, half-twisting in the ends of her t-shirt. The fabric is frayed and she pulls her forward.

Irene stumbles forward, into her and over her, her mouth gasping right into hers. Wendy’s head is spinning and you can’t quite call it a kiss, but it’s a kiss all the same. Their mouths are hot and wet. They move slowly. Or, well, Wendy moves slowly. Takes her time and drags her tongue along Irene’s lip because Irene makes this guttural noise she’s never heard before and she can taste it.

“I guess we’re leaving it open,” she murmurs and bites Irene’s lip too. Because she’s feeling a little spiteful.

Irene slides her knee between Wendy’s legs, presses it directly into her and Wendy feels her head start to buzz. She sighs into Irene’s mouth and grabs her hand too, guiding it between her legs because they’re here now and god, it’s been a long, long time where she’s done something this stupid.

It isn’t until she tastes Irene’s laugh in her mouth that she finally feels the other girl slide her fingers inside of her. Her brain feels ready to explode even though she doesn’t move them and her insides are tight with knots. Irene feels knuckle deep and Wendy feels herself already ready to explode. 

“I didn’t plan this.” Irene’s mouth moves off of hers, down to her throat and bites at the t-shirt that covers the plane of her breasts. Her wrist flicks and Wendy mews. “I swear,” Irene says. “I just wanted to sleep.”

“Liar,” she croaks.

Irene moves her hand slowly, just to the pace of her mouth traveling, gently over the fabric of her shirt all the way down to the exposed skin of her belly. She presses her mouth into the skin and Wendy grabs at her hair.

At some point, she just stops thinking.

She loses it when Irene slides her mouth between her legs and keeps her fingers there, oh god right _there_ and her hips decide to buck against her mouth. Minutes seem like endless hours, her mind going to blank and she just tries to bite lip down so she doesn’t make any more noises than she already is.

She comes, or begins to come, panics and squeezes her eyes shut because now she’s hot and tight and uncomfortable and _sated_. The conflict of emotions are nothing new even as she opens her eyes and watches Irene licks her fingers and her lips and this is her fucking bed.

Wendy trembles and sighs. “Really?”

“You always look the prettiest this way,” Irene murmurs and crawls back over her, pressing her hips into her own. Her mouth glides over Wendy’s and she smiles too. “At least, to me.” There is no apology in that either.

The tension in Wendy’s shoulders is gone. She pinches at Irene’s hip, but their legs are too tangled anyway and her skin is still flushed.

“You always look pretty to me,” she says. It might be an admission.

If Irene’s startled, she doesn’t say anything. Her fingers remain at Wendy’s hip. They do stay like this for a little while.

Wendy finds her bedroom door closed in the morning.

She can see it as the sunlight comes through the window on the opposite end. Irene is sleeping on her stomach.

It’s always been complicated, she thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's not lapslock! I also don't know where this one came from, but here we are.


End file.
